The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (34 page)

“I’m only cold, tired, hungry and thirsty, Roadbrother,” she said, quietly.  “Gladly do I accept your sanctuary.”  She knew her curse would begin to work in moments, and she hoped for a bite before discord broke the group.

“Then come hither – and share what you have,” he added, “as the others have.”

“I have nothing but my company, Roadbrother,” she said, apologetically. 

“Then we are well-paid,” said another man, swathed in his own cloak against the chill.  “For you are a comely lass, at least in this light.”  Lesana didn’t even blush.  She had heard far worse than that said of her.  “Have some stew,” the man added, nodding toward a tiny brass kettle at the edge of the fire.  “Rabbit, squirrel, mushrooms and onions.  I brought bread,” he added, proudly, as he spooned a serving into his own bowl and handed it to her with a heel of bread.  “Mayhap if I’m kind to you, you’ll warm my furs tonight.”  He didn’t realize what he had said until it was spoken, and that inspired a few rough snorts from the others.

One was a woman, older than Lesana, and her husband.  She studied Lesana carefully in the firelight as she gratefully soaked up the thin stew with the bread – only a few days old, she noted. 

“You aren’t a whore, are you, dear?” the woman asked.  “I don’t hold with whores,” she added.  “My Ferno here visits them when he goes to Jisten, and thinks I don’t know about it.  But I can smell them,” she added, matter-of-factly.  From Ferno’s face, this revelation was novel.

“I am not,” Lesana said, thankful that her curse did not prohibit her from lying herself.  “I am just traveling.  I am Lesana.”

“Free or villein?” asked a well-dressed man, suspiciously.  “Villeins should not be allowed to consort with proper folk.”

“I am free,” she agreed.  She knew that she had to steer the conversation toward something objective quickly, before too many personal details escaped to poison the air.  “Tell me, has anyone heard tale of the land called Sevendor?”

There were several nods, and Ferno began singing a few bars of the song, poorly.  The monk cleared his throat and nodded authoritatively. 

“Aye, Lesana.  It is a little domain in the Bontal Riverlands, in this very county.  Is that your destination?” as Gaffan, as he poured some ale from his jug into a horn and handed it to her.  “Blessed is the journey, and blessed the destination,” he added.

“It is, Roadbrother,” she agreed.  “Have you been there?”

“A Roadbrother goes everywhere,” Gaffan quoted, “but this particular roadbrother has yet to journey there.  But I have heard of it.  It lies south of the river, in the northern vales of the Uwarris.  So you seek the Spellmonger, do you?” he asked, with a kind smile.

“I seek the land,” she said, simply.  No need to explain too much, not to strangers.  “I’ve heard much of the Spellmonger, though.”

“I’ve met the man,” one of the other men around the fire admitted.  “I was a drover in Sendaria Port, last summer.  He traveled through there often, and twice I moved goods from port to storage on his behalf.  He’s a handsome man.”  The man stopped speaking quickly.

“You’ve met the Spellmonger?” asked the wife of Ferno.  “Was he as mysterious as tales say?”

“He was a man, no more,” the drover said, cautiously.  “But Sevendor does lie two days south of Sendaria Port.”  Lesana’s heart surged – this was the most information she’d heard about the little land yet, and the fact that she was within the same county was thrilling to her.  “I heard tale he was openhanded as a great lord, and just as powerful.”

“Aye, he conquered a dozen domains in a day, they say,” one of the other men remarked, as he stared into the fire.  “Glad I wasn’t around.  I’m a coward,” he said, simply.  “That’s the reason I’m on the road – I’m going east, away from the war.  I don’t like war.”

“No sane man does,” agreed the Roadbrother.  “Ah, Sevendor!  A name I’ve heard much of late.  The Spellmonger of Sevendor does wonders, it is said.  He took a wasteland and made if flower.  He is blessed by the gods.  All manner of tale to bless the road.  It’s all probably bullshit, like the gods themselves, but there is too much excitement on the road for the tale to be baseless.  And I know there is a domain called Sevendor.”

“The better-dressed man said.  “I travel there myself on business.”

“Are you a mage, then?” asked the wife.  “You look like a merchant.”

“Nay, Goodwife.  I am a spy.” The man swallowed hard in alarm as he realized what he had just revealed.  “I plan on watching the Spellmonger clandestinely and reporting his movements to my masters.”  He grew even more alarmed.

“And just who might these masters be, oh Goodman Spy?” asked the monk, curiously.

“I’ve said enough!” the man said in panic.  “They are paying me well for my work, and I must not be discovered!”

“Well, you aren’t a very good spy if you go around telling everyone, are you?” laughed the drover.

“I . . . you . . . ah, Ishi’s tits, why did I say that?” he asked in despair.   “Forget I said that!” he commanded, and then got up from the fire and left the encampment hurriedly.

“That was unusual,” grunted the monk.  “First time I’ve had a spy around Herus’ hearth. 

There was much lively speculation on the stranger’s apparent lack of discretion and the irony of his chosen profession, until the hour grew late and the travelers bedded down in their cloaks and blankets.  Lesana rose before dawn and left herself, traveling southward toward the Bontal River.  She walked with renewed determination.  If someone was willing to pay a spy to watch the Spellmonger, she reasoned, he not only had to be real, but he had to be powerful.  Perhaps powerful enough to end her curse.

She walked for three days until she came to the river, where she had to stop and work for a few days to earn her passage over.  The lateness of the year and the temperature of the river promised a dreadful chill if she tried to swim, so she found a prosperous peasant family in need of some chores and worked at mending and gleaning for a few days, until she had the three penny fare she needed.

Once on the other side of the river, the whole country was alive with talk of the enchanted land and its mysterious master.  The tales seemed to be taken as truth by those she questioned, and soon she was headed south out of Sendaria Port . . . on the road to Sevendor.

While the way was not bulging with witches and wizards following the Spellmonger’s call, it was filled with folk eager to sell their wares.  The Spellmonger was rich, it was said, and bought many strange items.  When she came to a village in the south of the barony, where new houses and a new manor were being built, she found folk who had met the man or been to the land, and her excitement grew even further.

She was directed to Ketta’s Stream, and followed it along the road back toward the hills, and eventually she came to a footsore footwizard, dangling his feet in the cool water.

“Are you on the road to Sevendor?” she asked him, politely.

“Aye,” the man sighed, “I’m hoping to find shelter from the Censors, who want my head.”

“Why would they want your head?” she asked, warily.

“For practicing my craft without their leave,” he said.  “But the Spellmonger of Sevendor has put an end to them!”

“You go to thank him?”

“I go to see what fortune I can turn from the man,” the man admitted without intending to.  “I’m tired of walking these cold, dusty roads and want something better for my life.”

“I, too, look for a better life in Sevendor.”

The footwizard looked her up and down.  “Perhaps a wife would help pass the time,” he said, thoughtfully.

Not wishing to be any man’s wife upon his first acquaintance, Lesana pardoned herself and continued south.

“Be wary of the forest!” called the footwizard after her.  “It is enchanted against intruders, it is said!  Leave the road at your peril!”

Sure enough, she soon came to a scrap of forest, though it looked newly-planted.  She passed through without incident, but was stopped at the large gate that held the frontier of the land.

“Is this Sevendor?” she asked the guard at the gate.

“It is,” he assured her.  “For that is the sign of the snowflake, or what a mage contends a snowflake appears as.  And no one may enter, save by the Spellmonger’s leave.”

“But I must speak to the Spellmonger!” she pleaded.  “For I am cursed, and I need his help!”

“Cursed, you say?” the guard asked, thoughtfully.  “Let me summon the Spellwarden.  For he is the arbiter of all such sorceries.”  The man sent word into the domain, and brought her water and bread while she waited.  Soon an officious-looking man rode up to the gatehouse.

“I am Banamor, Spellwarden of Sevendor,” he announced.  “You have a curse?”

“I do,” Lesana said, “and I need the Spellmonger’s help to lift it!”

“What is this curse?  Nymphomania, I hope?”  The mage immediately regretted what he said.  “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Think nothing of it,” she sighed.  “I am cursed.  Those near to me are compelled to tell the truth as they know it.”

The mage looked at her, horrified.  “Oh, you poor woman!” he declared.  “That must be awful for you!”

“It is,” she agreed, pleased with the sympathetic hearing she was getting.  “Can the Spellmonger remove the curse?”

“How the hell should I know?” Banamor declared.  “I can barely understand what he can do, now.  The man is a complete mystery, sometimes, and infuriating to talk to.  And the ego . . . so sorry,” he apologized, his face blushing as he realized what he had revealed.  “I shall say no more.  No man should be compelled to speak truthfully of his thoughts on his master.”

“I have heard far worse,” she agreed.

“I don’t doubt you have.  By all means, let me escort you to the castle,  lest you inadvertently wander into a tavern and start a war.  And . . . let us conduct our journey in silence, to enjoy the day.”

Appreciating his wisdom, Lesana agreed, and in but an hour a cart was harnessed for their use to ride the six miles to the castle.

“It is a beautiful valley,” she said, conversationally, as they left the village.  “Sevendor . . . I’ve heard so much about it.”

“You should have seen it a year ago,” he snorted.  “It took a bushel of magic to get it right.”

“They say that the snow never melts here,” she ventured.

“That only happened that one time,” he said, defensively.  “I had nothing to do with it.  I swear.”

“And that the Spellmonger needs virgins to fuel his magics,” she added with a giggle.

“Virgins?  Not to my knowledge.  But he is a randy bugger.  I wonder—”

“No,” she supplied, before the inevitable question was asked.  “Not for years.”

He blushed again.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean—”

“I understand.  Tell me, is the Spellmonger kind?”

“We call him Magelord, here,” Banamor informed her.  “He doesn’t mind ‘Spellmonger’, but not from his own folk.  And he seems kind . . . so far.  Perhaps too kind.”

“Do you think he can help me?” she asked, eagerly.

“If he can, and he has a mind to, he might,” Banamor agreed.  “He’s been known to have his head turned by a perky pair of pumpkins,” he added.  He blushed immediately.  “I—”

“No,” Lesana said, “that is good to know.  He is not . . . an old man, is he?”

“No,” the Spellwarden nodded, as he urged the team forward.  “And he is married to our Lady, and expecting his second child.”

“Ah, then I don’t have to fear his lechery,” she sighed, relieved.

“I didn’t say that,” Banamor said, before he could catch himself.  He looked distressed as he thought furiously, opening his mouth only when he was certain of what would come forth.  “I have never known Magelord Minalan to breach his vows.  Any of them,” he added. 

“But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

“I can’t be everywhere at once,” Banamor insisted.  “Let’s finish this journey quietly, shall we?”

Sevendor Castle was a gleaming white fortress that arose out of the hillsides almost naturally.  Great green-and-white banners bearing the Spellmonger’s device were hung from battlements and bridges all over.  Banamor drove the cart through town nervously, continuously casting glances at his passenger.

“This seems like a busy little town,” she said, casually, as they rode through the bustling village.

“It will be,” he promised.  “And hopefully I will own a goodly portion of it before long.  I am destined to become rich,” he said, matter-of-factly, “and I find such a thought suits me.  Perhaps I will accrue enough wealth to find me a pretty little wife . . . who does not compel a man to tell the truth.”

“I wish you Ishi’s luck with that,” nodded Lesana. 

Banamor drove the woman to the castle without further incident or discussion, and then quickly escorted her into the Great Hall, up some stairs, and into a small tower near the rear of the keep.

“Stay here,” the Spellwarden commanded.  “This is my lord’s private workshop, where he sees . . . cases such as yours,” he added, carefully.  “Pray touch nothing – there is no telling what horror you might unleash on us,” he added, looking around the laboratory suspiciously.  “I have no idea what most of this stuff does.”

She waited  -- for how long, she did not know.  And while she honored her promise, she could not help but peer with interest at the many and diverse wonders in his shop.  Though she knew not what she was seeing, the glass and metal, the beakers and bottles, the stones and crystals around her nearly pulsed with magic.  Just when she was wondering if she had been forgotten, the door to the chamber opened and a young man, only a few years older than her, entered.